I don’t know if it’s just me or if everyone has been experiencing this, but it seems like more and more I am being reminded of exactly how old I am getting. It seems like several times a week I will see something on TV or hear a song on the radio and they will say what year it is from and I will think, “That was how long ago?! Are you kidding me?!”
Sometimes I even say that out loud. I’ll admit it. Luckily I haven’t done it in public. Or maybe I have. Oh my God! Have I done that in public and not even realized it due to my advancing years? Have I crossed over to the sort of advanced age related idiosyncrasies like sneezing SO LOUD that it restarts your heart because it’s so worn out it stops when you sneeze and I haven’t even noticed it because my hearing is so bad?
Just kidding, my hearing is fine. What?
It’s quite a reality check when you realize that a very important event in your life happened over a decade ago. Are you kidding me? Do you know what is supposed to have happened a decade ago? Fifth grade. That’s it. That is the ONLY thing that should have happened that long ago. Everything else in life should have happened within the last 2 years because that’s how young people experience life.
College kids have no concept of the reality of age because everything that happens to them is new and fancy and full of fun and probably the very real threat of an STD. And I can honestly say that there is nothing wrong with that. As far as I’m concerned, everything should be new and fancy and full of fun and I’ll just bring a condom to make sure everything is the way it is supposed to be. Even the STD.
The best part of being young is (or should I say ‘was’) the fact that there are no consequences for most of your actions. Fail a class? “I’ll take it next semester.” Break up with your girlfriend/boyfriend? “I’ll get a new one in a couple of weeks.” Have a shitty summer vacation? “I’ll do something better next year. Maybe Cancun.”
But the next thing you know 12 summers have passed, you’ve never been to Cancun and you’re sitting at home on a Tuesday night, watching “The Biggest Loser” alone while eating a plain chicken breast and broccoli instead of being out at the bars enjoying San Felipe’s Cantina’s ½ price tequila shots on Tequila Tuesdays with bar food, the hot girl that worked there who wanted to do you but you never hooked up because one of you ALWAYS had a girlfriend or a boyfriend when the other was single, and at least 2 of your best friends in the world. Oh yeah, and tequila.
That was a really long sentence that mathematically adds up to this sentence: Why the hell do I even wake up in the mornings anymore? Honestly. What the hell am I doing being this old and this lame? A decade ago I was making more money, drinking a WHOLE lot more and thus having a WHOLE lot more fun, and I had no concept that someday I would wake up and be as old as I am.
I’ll be honest, though. I can’t really say I am depressed by the act of getting older, because mentally I feel just about as dumb as I was when I was 22, give or take some sparkles of age-induced brilliance every now and again (like when I finally figured out what securities trading is. Unfortunately I am getting old and I promptly forgot what I learned so I need to go look it up again just to make sure). Apart from how much it hurts to get out of bed sometimes, it’s really not too bad.
The worst part of it, to me at least, is the fact that I have gray hair creeping up into my facial area. I don’t like that one bit. Not one bit I say! Gray hair is for old people. Not almost 37-year-olds. It’s for like 55-year-olds and above. That stuff just does not fit into my lifestyle.
A couple of years ago I was at a pool party at my friend T-Rock’s house (just an FYI, eventually we are going to be too old for nicknames like that. Eventually Ice Cube is going to HAVE to change his name back to O’Shea Jackson because I don’t think anyone in their 40’s should be named after something you use to reduce swelling) and I was standing on the diving board, getting ready to unleash some mad diving skills upon the pool, when Zoom, a friend of mine whose nickname days are also numbered (can’t wait to see you half-stepping it with a walker and telling some lady at the nursing home, “They call me ZOOM, bitch!”) says to me, “Dude, what the hell is that on your chest?”
I look down, fully expecting an open wound, a tattoo I don’t remember getting or a large piece of barbed wire to be sticking out of my chest. Instead I come face to face with a large patch of gray chest hair where my black chest hair used to be. And the gray hair begins mocking me.
“What the hell is that?” I ask, a bit panicked.
“Is that gray hair?” asks Zoom.
“No, I think I was out in the sun too long and it bleached my chest hair blond,” I lie.
“Ha ha! That’s gray hair! Dude, you’re OLD!”
So I tried to cannonball him but I jackknifed my hip and almost drown because my leg didn’t work. That’ll teach him.
But he was right. It was gray hair. And that gray hair has steadily started the creep up from my chest into my goatee and into the sides of my hair. If I don’t shave for 3 days I can literally add 12 years to my face. That would have been awesome when I was 19, but it’s not so good when I’m already old enough to do anything worth getting old for.
Except maybe joining AARP. I hear they have some good tequila parties. But they probably don’t let anyone dance on the bar anymore. Not without a doctor’s note.
I think there is probably a box or two of Just For Men in my future. I’m lame, I know, but the gray hair belongs on someone else’s face, at least for 13 more years. Then I’ll take it back. Maybe.
B!
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
Memory On Sabbatical
There is a trailer that has been playing for the last three or four months at the movie theater I normally go to that talks about the Will Roger’s Institute and how donations from moviegoers has helped finance all kinds of programs used at the institute. According to the trailer, millions and millions of dollars have been donated to the institute. The problem is, I don’t remember ever donating money to them.
But then it hit me: Way back in the mid- to late-1970’s they used to play a Will Roger’s Institute commercial on the screen at the movie theater and then they would stop everything, turn on the lights and pass a couple of buckets around the audience for people to donate money into, kind of like a movie version of the collection plate at church.
The memory I have of this happening is of me sitting next to my dad at some movie I saw with him, the title of which has been lost to the winds of time. I do remember that the walls of the movie theater were brown, but I doubt that helps much. I won’t even attempt to name the film because that memory is absolutely gone. But I do remember several occasions where a film was stopped and a bucket was passed around to collect money for the Will Roger’s Institute.
So I’m not really worried about what happened to the collection bucket because it’s obvious that a bunch of them probably went missing and they had to find a new way to collect money from moviegoers. What worries me is what exactly happened to the rest of my memories of the circumstances surrounding those collection buckets. Where are they? Are they still with me?
Logic would assume that they have to still be with me, otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to recall something that hasn’t happened for 30 years. Where has that memory been? Hanging out with a bunch of other random, nearly meaningless memories down at the pub, throwing back pints and waiting to get called up to mess up my mental processes for an afternoon?
The fact that I remember anything kind of leads me to believe that I probably remember everything. If a smell can trigger something specific in my mind (my kindergarten teacher, whose name is a mystery to me, used to smell like a very specific mixture of cigarettes and perfume that other women occasionally have and it hits my nose from time to time and brings me right back to the days of Dick, Jane and Spot), and a song can bring me back to a certain time in my life, should I assume that everything that has ever happened to me is stored somewhere in my memory?
If you think about that in real terms, that should boggle the part of your mind that is prone to that sort of thing. Everything you’ve ever seen, heard, smelled, tasted or touched is somewhere inside of you if we subscribe to this theory.
I went so far as to call my dad and ask him if he ever remembered something like that happening. It was obvious that he hadn’t thought of it in probably the same amount of time I had. It’s kind of neat to be on the other end of the phone listening to someone’s light bulbs light up as they slowly recall some otherwise meaningless event that is only a noteworthy experience because it is a shared experience.
At the same time, a friend of mine told me about a time where a few of us TP’ed a guy’s house when we were in high school and I ABSOLUTELY CANNOT remember doing that. I don’t even have the faintest glimmer of a recollection of doing that and it has even gotten to the point where I want to go TP his house just so I can see what it feels like, see if I can’t jog some memories or something.
Where the hell is that memory? Why can I remember some guy standing in a movie theater, begging with a bucket, but I can’t remember something that should be a semi-noteworthy experience in my life?
Alcohol, I blame you.
Man, I could go on and on about this subject, but I don’t think I would get anywhere. What are your thoughts?
B!
But then it hit me: Way back in the mid- to late-1970’s they used to play a Will Roger’s Institute commercial on the screen at the movie theater and then they would stop everything, turn on the lights and pass a couple of buckets around the audience for people to donate money into, kind of like a movie version of the collection plate at church.
The memory I have of this happening is of me sitting next to my dad at some movie I saw with him, the title of which has been lost to the winds of time. I do remember that the walls of the movie theater were brown, but I doubt that helps much. I won’t even attempt to name the film because that memory is absolutely gone. But I do remember several occasions where a film was stopped and a bucket was passed around to collect money for the Will Roger’s Institute.
So I’m not really worried about what happened to the collection bucket because it’s obvious that a bunch of them probably went missing and they had to find a new way to collect money from moviegoers. What worries me is what exactly happened to the rest of my memories of the circumstances surrounding those collection buckets. Where are they? Are they still with me?
Logic would assume that they have to still be with me, otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to recall something that hasn’t happened for 30 years. Where has that memory been? Hanging out with a bunch of other random, nearly meaningless memories down at the pub, throwing back pints and waiting to get called up to mess up my mental processes for an afternoon?
The fact that I remember anything kind of leads me to believe that I probably remember everything. If a smell can trigger something specific in my mind (my kindergarten teacher, whose name is a mystery to me, used to smell like a very specific mixture of cigarettes and perfume that other women occasionally have and it hits my nose from time to time and brings me right back to the days of Dick, Jane and Spot), and a song can bring me back to a certain time in my life, should I assume that everything that has ever happened to me is stored somewhere in my memory?
If you think about that in real terms, that should boggle the part of your mind that is prone to that sort of thing. Everything you’ve ever seen, heard, smelled, tasted or touched is somewhere inside of you if we subscribe to this theory.
I went so far as to call my dad and ask him if he ever remembered something like that happening. It was obvious that he hadn’t thought of it in probably the same amount of time I had. It’s kind of neat to be on the other end of the phone listening to someone’s light bulbs light up as they slowly recall some otherwise meaningless event that is only a noteworthy experience because it is a shared experience.
At the same time, a friend of mine told me about a time where a few of us TP’ed a guy’s house when we were in high school and I ABSOLUTELY CANNOT remember doing that. I don’t even have the faintest glimmer of a recollection of doing that and it has even gotten to the point where I want to go TP his house just so I can see what it feels like, see if I can’t jog some memories or something.
Where the hell is that memory? Why can I remember some guy standing in a movie theater, begging with a bucket, but I can’t remember something that should be a semi-noteworthy experience in my life?
Alcohol, I blame you.
Man, I could go on and on about this subject, but I don’t think I would get anywhere. What are your thoughts?
B!
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Catching The Wind
On my way home from work today I was behind a green Ford Thunderbird with at least three young adults in it. First off, I know I’m getting old because I can call people in their late teens and early twenties “kids” and “young adults.” I guess that makes me a “medium” adult, because I think the crossover from adult to “old person” is about 53 years old.
Ask me about that “old person” thing when I’m 53 and I’m sure I’ll be able to slide that one up to 70 pretty easily. Don’t ask me anything when I’m 70 because I won’t have time for any stupid foolishness like answering questions about my age and how I feel. I’ll be too busy going to bed at 6:30 at night and enjoying my breakfast at 4AM at Denny’s. And don’t you dare get in between me and my Moons Over My-Hammy. I will kill you. What are they going to do, give me life in prison? It will be worth the 2 years I serve to see the look of shock on your face when I stab you with in the ear with my fork for interrupting my morning date with two eggs and a slab of ham. Fair warning.
Anyway, as I’m rolling behind this Thunderbird, the passenger window rolls down and a hand comes out, trying to catch the wind. At the time I couldn’t tell if the hand belonged to a young person or an old person, boy or girl. All I could see was it trying to catch the wind. Then it did the “swan move” and made itself more aerodynamic, then it started surfing the wind as it blew past, moving up and down as the wind dictated.
Seeing that hand made me happy. It made me think about the first time I ever caught the wind in my hand like that. It made me think about riding in a blue Econoline 150 van with my dad back in the 1970’s. It was equipped with captain’s chairs in the front and no chairs in the back, just a shag rug because it was the ‘70’s and nobody had any concept of style or safety back then. Seat belts? Not so much. Maybe a lap belt for the driver, but everyone else in the car would have been left to bounce off of each other like a huge polyester mosh pit in the event of a crash.
But that passenger window in that van was perfect for catching the wind. My dad used to have an air conditioning system he used to call “the 255 A/C system.” It sounds cool, but all it meant was two windows down and 55 miles an hour. Nothing to do but catch the wind and sweat when you’re in advanced technology like that. Fortunately we lived in Colorado so you could get away with that air conditioning system for most of the summer there. Still, I wonder how much wonderful Colorado scenery I missed while staring at my hand while it caught the wind.
Then I have to wonder if I will ever get too old to be mesmerized by the feel of the wind on my hand as I drive down a road somewhere. I hope not. But you rarely, if ever, see old people driving with the windows down and their hands out the window. Did they just forget about doing that? Or is that something that loses its allure over the years?
I hope I never get too old to feel the wind.
B!
Ask me about that “old person” thing when I’m 53 and I’m sure I’ll be able to slide that one up to 70 pretty easily. Don’t ask me anything when I’m 70 because I won’t have time for any stupid foolishness like answering questions about my age and how I feel. I’ll be too busy going to bed at 6:30 at night and enjoying my breakfast at 4AM at Denny’s. And don’t you dare get in between me and my Moons Over My-Hammy. I will kill you. What are they going to do, give me life in prison? It will be worth the 2 years I serve to see the look of shock on your face when I stab you with in the ear with my fork for interrupting my morning date with two eggs and a slab of ham. Fair warning.
Anyway, as I’m rolling behind this Thunderbird, the passenger window rolls down and a hand comes out, trying to catch the wind. At the time I couldn’t tell if the hand belonged to a young person or an old person, boy or girl. All I could see was it trying to catch the wind. Then it did the “swan move” and made itself more aerodynamic, then it started surfing the wind as it blew past, moving up and down as the wind dictated.
Seeing that hand made me happy. It made me think about the first time I ever caught the wind in my hand like that. It made me think about riding in a blue Econoline 150 van with my dad back in the 1970’s. It was equipped with captain’s chairs in the front and no chairs in the back, just a shag rug because it was the ‘70’s and nobody had any concept of style or safety back then. Seat belts? Not so much. Maybe a lap belt for the driver, but everyone else in the car would have been left to bounce off of each other like a huge polyester mosh pit in the event of a crash.
But that passenger window in that van was perfect for catching the wind. My dad used to have an air conditioning system he used to call “the 255 A/C system.” It sounds cool, but all it meant was two windows down and 55 miles an hour. Nothing to do but catch the wind and sweat when you’re in advanced technology like that. Fortunately we lived in Colorado so you could get away with that air conditioning system for most of the summer there. Still, I wonder how much wonderful Colorado scenery I missed while staring at my hand while it caught the wind.
Then I have to wonder if I will ever get too old to be mesmerized by the feel of the wind on my hand as I drive down a road somewhere. I hope not. But you rarely, if ever, see old people driving with the windows down and their hands out the window. Did they just forget about doing that? Or is that something that loses its allure over the years?
I hope I never get too old to feel the wind.
B!
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
The Dumbest People In America: A Competition
Unbeknownst to the majority of Americans, I have been conducting a top-secret, ultra-undercover, amazingly scientific survey intended to determine the dumbest people in America.
I could easily bore you with all of the talk of analogous subsets, placebo groupings, double blind ad hoc testes wrestling, and, of course, the Dentyne effect, where no matter how hard you search for five dentists to agree on something, one of those motherfuckers ALWAYS recommends Big Red.
One day that fifth dentist is going to get theirs, I tell you. In spades. Or maybe in his teeth, because I don’t actually know what “in spades” means.
I have decided not to bore you with all of the scientific mumbo jumbo because it is really just a bunch of spreadsheets that would make no sense to anyone but me, and since I never wrote down a key to the meaning in case the spreadsheets fell into the wrong hands, you will just have to take my word for it unless somebody out there gets all fancy crazy and discovers/makes up a Rosetta stone to help translate my findings. You should take my word for it anyway because I literally spent minutes of my life gathering this information and organizing it into something sort of official looking.
And who cares that I got a B in Bio 100 in college and never took the lab because I didn’t feel like standing around in a lab with silly goggles on for 3 hours a week for 1 credit of work. If you ask me, the people who actually wasted their time for that crap have no business passing judgment on the stupid people of the world because somebody would just have to slip a mirror into the little slide on the microscope they spent 3 hours looking into to give them an idea of who the real dummy is. Really? All that work for one credit hour? Are you kidding me?
The real smart people took an astronomy lab because you didn’t have to cut anything open, you just had to look through a telescope, draw dots on paper and label them as stars and galaxies and you got the added bonus of hanging out with a pretty hot girl who, in retrospect, led you on just to copy your homework and who turned out to be kind of a bitch.
Ah, the ignorance of youth. How I miss it. The bliss of not knowing when a girl was using you to get her degree without having to give up the pootie. If I could go back, several women would have either not graduated or spent some time naked in my room, I tell you what.
Anyway, I will now reveal the findings of my survey and list, once and for all, who the dumbest groups of people are in America:
#5: Rich women in luxury cars they didn’t buy themselves. I’m guessing this is kind of a surprise to people, because who has better access to education and all that crap than rich people? But here’s the rub: rich women don’t have to be smart, especially if they are pretty. They can pretty much coast through life and have stuff handed to them without ever having to make an actual rational decision or original thought. All they have to do is look good and stay a few steps behind their rich husbands/fathers and make as few waves as possible.
#4: People who think that writers who resort to using Top 10 lists for humor have hit the bottom of the creative barrel and are using the lists as a cheap way to get a laugh. All I have to say to that is “F U” and please take special note that this is a top 5 list and there are MUCH cheaper ways to get a laugh. Take my fart jokes, please. So I’m only halfway to the bottom of the creative barrel you sons of bitches. There’s much more crap where this came from, trust me. And please, take my fart jokes. Pretty please.
#3: Texas.
#2: People who spell the word “maybe” wrong. Mabey, mabye and mqqqqbe are all spelled wrong. Learn your native tongue you pricks.
#1: Juggalos or whatever the hell the people who consider themselves fans of the Insane Clown Posse call themselves. I would consider them in the same league as Oakland Raider fans, but in reality the Juggalos are SOOOO much dumber that they take the Raider fans completely off the charts since the Raiders fans are at least smart enough to like a football team. There is literally not ONE redeeming quality about anything the ICP does at any point. They had one song that was mildly entertaining, but it wasn’t even good enough for me to know the title of, so that pretty much wraps it up for those guys.
As an added bonus, I will give you the dumbest animals in America at no extra charge: cats. I only have one bit of data to back up my claims, but I think it will suffice. A woman just found her two cats that climbed into a part of the house that was being remodeled THIRTEEN weeks ago. Instead of coming out after spending a couple of minutes snooping around in the remodel, the cats decided to spend the next 3 months trapped inside of the walls of the house.
You know how many times I’ve heard that story about a dog? Zero. You know why? Because dogs aren’t that fucking stupid.
I rest my case.
B!
P.S.—as a special addendum to this blog, I would like to retract anything I ever said about dogs being smarter than cats thanks to an episode I experienced last night where my dog threw up shit. Let me repeat that for those who may have missed it. My dog threw up shit. Out of his mouth. I am not lying about that. You only get one guess as to why there was shit for him to throw up.
So, to any dogs reading this blog (and I know you’re out there) you can send your thank you cards to Foster Charmington for dropping your collective IQ to a VERY unrespectable level. He would like to apologize, but he’s got kind of a potty mouth and I don’t want that kind of stuff going on in this blog.
Get it, potty mouth? Oh, fuck off, that was good and you know it.
I could easily bore you with all of the talk of analogous subsets, placebo groupings, double blind ad hoc testes wrestling, and, of course, the Dentyne effect, where no matter how hard you search for five dentists to agree on something, one of those motherfuckers ALWAYS recommends Big Red.
One day that fifth dentist is going to get theirs, I tell you. In spades. Or maybe in his teeth, because I don’t actually know what “in spades” means.
I have decided not to bore you with all of the scientific mumbo jumbo because it is really just a bunch of spreadsheets that would make no sense to anyone but me, and since I never wrote down a key to the meaning in case the spreadsheets fell into the wrong hands, you will just have to take my word for it unless somebody out there gets all fancy crazy and discovers/makes up a Rosetta stone to help translate my findings. You should take my word for it anyway because I literally spent minutes of my life gathering this information and organizing it into something sort of official looking.
And who cares that I got a B in Bio 100 in college and never took the lab because I didn’t feel like standing around in a lab with silly goggles on for 3 hours a week for 1 credit of work. If you ask me, the people who actually wasted their time for that crap have no business passing judgment on the stupid people of the world because somebody would just have to slip a mirror into the little slide on the microscope they spent 3 hours looking into to give them an idea of who the real dummy is. Really? All that work for one credit hour? Are you kidding me?
The real smart people took an astronomy lab because you didn’t have to cut anything open, you just had to look through a telescope, draw dots on paper and label them as stars and galaxies and you got the added bonus of hanging out with a pretty hot girl who, in retrospect, led you on just to copy your homework and who turned out to be kind of a bitch.
Ah, the ignorance of youth. How I miss it. The bliss of not knowing when a girl was using you to get her degree without having to give up the pootie. If I could go back, several women would have either not graduated or spent some time naked in my room, I tell you what.
Anyway, I will now reveal the findings of my survey and list, once and for all, who the dumbest groups of people are in America:
#5: Rich women in luxury cars they didn’t buy themselves. I’m guessing this is kind of a surprise to people, because who has better access to education and all that crap than rich people? But here’s the rub: rich women don’t have to be smart, especially if they are pretty. They can pretty much coast through life and have stuff handed to them without ever having to make an actual rational decision or original thought. All they have to do is look good and stay a few steps behind their rich husbands/fathers and make as few waves as possible.
#4: People who think that writers who resort to using Top 10 lists for humor have hit the bottom of the creative barrel and are using the lists as a cheap way to get a laugh. All I have to say to that is “F U” and please take special note that this is a top 5 list and there are MUCH cheaper ways to get a laugh. Take my fart jokes, please. So I’m only halfway to the bottom of the creative barrel you sons of bitches. There’s much more crap where this came from, trust me. And please, take my fart jokes. Pretty please.
#3: Texas.
#2: People who spell the word “maybe” wrong. Mabey, mabye and mqqqqbe are all spelled wrong. Learn your native tongue you pricks.
#1: Juggalos or whatever the hell the people who consider themselves fans of the Insane Clown Posse call themselves. I would consider them in the same league as Oakland Raider fans, but in reality the Juggalos are SOOOO much dumber that they take the Raider fans completely off the charts since the Raiders fans are at least smart enough to like a football team. There is literally not ONE redeeming quality about anything the ICP does at any point. They had one song that was mildly entertaining, but it wasn’t even good enough for me to know the title of, so that pretty much wraps it up for those guys.
As an added bonus, I will give you the dumbest animals in America at no extra charge: cats. I only have one bit of data to back up my claims, but I think it will suffice. A woman just found her two cats that climbed into a part of the house that was being remodeled THIRTEEN weeks ago. Instead of coming out after spending a couple of minutes snooping around in the remodel, the cats decided to spend the next 3 months trapped inside of the walls of the house.
You know how many times I’ve heard that story about a dog? Zero. You know why? Because dogs aren’t that fucking stupid.
I rest my case.
B!
P.S.—as a special addendum to this blog, I would like to retract anything I ever said about dogs being smarter than cats thanks to an episode I experienced last night where my dog threw up shit. Let me repeat that for those who may have missed it. My dog threw up shit. Out of his mouth. I am not lying about that. You only get one guess as to why there was shit for him to throw up.
So, to any dogs reading this blog (and I know you’re out there) you can send your thank you cards to Foster Charmington for dropping your collective IQ to a VERY unrespectable level. He would like to apologize, but he’s got kind of a potty mouth and I don’t want that kind of stuff going on in this blog.
Get it, potty mouth? Oh, fuck off, that was good and you know it.
Friday, October 2, 2009
The Infinit Ownership Test
Today, while at the library, I came across a top secret document that the makers of the Infiniti line of automobiles use to weed through all the riffraff as part of their ownership requirements. They don’t want you to know these answers because Infiniti is a luxury brand and they don’t want trailer park scum like yourselves being able to get behind the seat of one of their automobiles.
I say we all take these answers to heart and go to the nearest Infiniti dealership, take the test, pass it, go for a test drive, then go straight over to the nearest Nissan dealership and buy one of their cars because they are the EXACT fucking car only cheaper. Sound good? Now, get out your cheat sheets and prepare to answer the Infiniti Ownership Test. The answers will appear in bold print for your convenience.
Question 1:
When driving on a thoroughfare with a posted speed limit of 45 MPH, what speed should you travel?
a. 45 MPH
b. 47 MPH
c. 52 MPH
d. A posted what? I’ve never heard of such a thing.
Question 2:
When driving on the freeway, what is the proper procedure for changing lanes?
a. Check your mirrors, signal, make sure there is adequate clearance, slowly merge
b. Signal and change lanes, checking your mirrors after you already in the other lane
c. Just go man, just go
d. Drive right up the ass of the guy in front of you until you can see what he ate for lunch, then cross as many lanes of traffic as there are, cutting off as many people as you can, then cross as many lanes back across the freeway as possible to end up one car length in front of where you started.
Question 3:
When encountering a stop sign, how long must you come to a complete stop before proceeding?
a. 1 second
b. 2 seconds
c. As long as it takes to ensure I have the right of way.
d. I bought this car to go, not stop. I acknowledge the stop sign’s presence with a slight nod of my head as I blow through it then contact my attorney to slap an injunction against the Stop Sign Placement Coalition and go on about my day.
Question 4:
Which lane should you be in to make a right hand turn?
a. The right hand lane
b. The center lane
c. The left hand lane
d. Whatever lane I want. My car is better than everyone else’s and they should be happy to share the same road as me.
Question 5:
What kind of person best fits the profile of an Infiniti driver?
a. Someone who knows the rules of the road and always drives defensively
b. Someone who enjoys a car that performs and who knows the rules of the road
c. Someone who cares about the well being of other humans in the world
d. Someone who is a self-important prick who knows nothing about how to drive except that shiny cars look cool.
I know it’s a short test, but you’d be surprised how many people don’t pass it. Happy Infiniti driving, assholes!
B!
I say we all take these answers to heart and go to the nearest Infiniti dealership, take the test, pass it, go for a test drive, then go straight over to the nearest Nissan dealership and buy one of their cars because they are the EXACT fucking car only cheaper. Sound good? Now, get out your cheat sheets and prepare to answer the Infiniti Ownership Test. The answers will appear in bold print for your convenience.
Question 1:
When driving on a thoroughfare with a posted speed limit of 45 MPH, what speed should you travel?
a. 45 MPH
b. 47 MPH
c. 52 MPH
d. A posted what? I’ve never heard of such a thing.
Question 2:
When driving on the freeway, what is the proper procedure for changing lanes?
a. Check your mirrors, signal, make sure there is adequate clearance, slowly merge
b. Signal and change lanes, checking your mirrors after you already in the other lane
c. Just go man, just go
d. Drive right up the ass of the guy in front of you until you can see what he ate for lunch, then cross as many lanes of traffic as there are, cutting off as many people as you can, then cross as many lanes back across the freeway as possible to end up one car length in front of where you started.
Question 3:
When encountering a stop sign, how long must you come to a complete stop before proceeding?
a. 1 second
b. 2 seconds
c. As long as it takes to ensure I have the right of way.
d. I bought this car to go, not stop. I acknowledge the stop sign’s presence with a slight nod of my head as I blow through it then contact my attorney to slap an injunction against the Stop Sign Placement Coalition and go on about my day.
Question 4:
Which lane should you be in to make a right hand turn?
a. The right hand lane
b. The center lane
c. The left hand lane
d. Whatever lane I want. My car is better than everyone else’s and they should be happy to share the same road as me.
Question 5:
What kind of person best fits the profile of an Infiniti driver?
a. Someone who knows the rules of the road and always drives defensively
b. Someone who enjoys a car that performs and who knows the rules of the road
c. Someone who cares about the well being of other humans in the world
d. Someone who is a self-important prick who knows nothing about how to drive except that shiny cars look cool.
I know it’s a short test, but you’d be surprised how many people don’t pass it. Happy Infiniti driving, assholes!
B!
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
A Pothead's Guide To Meaningful Conversation
I am not a pothead, so don’t let the name of this little essay fool you. I will admit I have smoked marijuana two times in my life: once when I was twelve and once when I was thirty. My rationale for the two trips down High And Stupid lane basically follow the edict that when I was twelve I wasn’t old enough to know any better (even though I did know it was a “bad” thing to do) and when I was thirty I was too old to know any better. My parents are going to kill me when they read this, by the way.
Amazingly, I made my way through several years of high school and college without ever doing the marijuana drug (or any drugs for that matter) again after my indiscretion as a 12-year-old. I also found out something very important about myself when I engaged in the illicit activity of smoking marijuana: It made me a complete fucking idiot. It made me stupid when I was twelve (which is why I didn’t do it again until I was thirty) and it made me EVEN DUMBER when I was thirty because I had 18 more years of experience to pile on to the Dumb Train before driving it off the tracks and into a ravine.
I’m not going to pull any punches here with the weed smoking because I have lived with enough potheads in my lifetime to be able to speak my mind about it. And, let’s face it, anything you smoke that can make a story about a guy with a hotdog in his pocket that he is contemplating throwing at a homeless man the funniest thing you’ve ever heard in your life needs to be called out in a public forum other than an article in High Times.
I take that back, that story is still pretty funny. Just not funny enough to make me or anyone else cry with laughter unless they are high on the ciga-weed. Then, somehow, a man in a tracksuit with a hotdog in his pocket becomes the highest form of comedy ever conceived, leaving things like satire, slapstick and “your mother” jokes choking in the dust. Or the smoke, as it were.
The biggest problem I have had lately with potheads is that they talk about it too fucking much and they like to interject random bullshit factoids to support their use of the drug. You will be engaged in a conversation with a pothead about how the NFL draft went, for example, and they will say something like, “Did you know that Thomas Jefferson smoked a gang of weed all the time? And so did Albert Einstein. Those guys did alright.”
What?
I always want to come back with, “Yeah, and did you know Hitler did amphetamines? Look how much that guy got done in a couple of years. The theory of relativity is for pussies. A real man gets bombed out of his gourd, invades Poland and bitch slaps France before committing suicide in a bunker somewhere after murdering like 8 million people.”
And if you have the audacity to think I’m glorifying Hitler, by the way, you should put down the pipe/apple/bong/gas mask and take a trip into the real world with the rest of us who actually have to deal with reality on a daily basis. I’m just not into the tired rhetoric of potheads. “Dude, George Washington smoked pot and they put his face on the dollar bill.”
Yeah, but, surprisingly, they didn’t put his face on the dollar bill because he smoked pot. I can pretty much guarantee that. Otherwise I’ve had several roommates during my lifetime who belong on currency of some sort. Probably Jamaican, come to think of it. For every one person who did something great with themselves in the 1700’s in spite of smoking pot I can give you at least 30 in the 2000’s who have done nothing but get blazed and play Halo for 16 hours straight.
“Yeah dude, but they play Halo in cooperation mode. That shit’s hard to do when you’re high. Can you order me a pizza? I can’t remember where the phone is.”
You know what else is hard to do? Try putting something in your mouth without lighting it on fire. I can’t tell you how much I struggle with that. Who even thought of that in the first place? If I walked around with a lit candle in my ear would that make me look cooler than I already am? What if I told you it would get you SUPER high and you could see God?
“Dude, it’s herbal. It’s natural. God wants us to smoke it.” Really? Then why do respiratory ailments exist? Is that God’s way of saying, “Gotcha, suckers! Smoke all you want, I’ll still kick your ass.” If you think about it, everything on earth was put here by God (if that’s the route you want to choose in your argument for weed) and we just used our free will to take the periodic table of elements and move some stuff around a little bit here and there and we came up with awesome things like crystal meth, morphine and internet porn (obviously everything isn’t ALL bad about playing with the periodic table). EVERYTHING we use is natural at some point in its existence on earth. Until we start smoking moon rocks or doing lines of Mars at the new Studio 54 I regret to inform all the potheads that the “it’s natural” defense is bullshit.
Do you only eat “organic” food too? That stuff is another huge crock of shit but I will save that for another day, just to save you from having another rant to worry about.
The worst part about the weed smokers is that they all think they are smarter than people who don’t smoke. Let me put this into the proper perspective: People who habitually use a drug that makes their reaction time slower, their conversations more boring and their clothes more smelly actually think they have the ability to pull one over on those who don’t smoke because they think they are smarter than everyone around them.
And they say weed does no harm. I say we already have enough stupid people in the world, what the hell do we need with a drug that makes people dumber than they already are? You are absolutely not fooling anyone when you smoke out and show up in the same room as me. You’re not fooling anyone when you go to your room, close the door and put a towel down on the floor to cover the hole on the bottom. You’re not fooling anyone when you suddenly disappear from a campsite because you “forgot your ice cream” in town (actually, I take that back, you did fool me and I’m still pissed about that). You’re not fooling anyone when you spend days upon days going to your friend’s house to “practice for softball” but come home every night glassy-eyed and still as shitty at softball as you were when you left.
Basically, all I’m saying is that if you want to go smoke weed, go ahead. Smoke away. Get higher than a motha. But don’t try to tell me how awesome it is because you would never use the same tired arguments potheads use for weed in place of ANY other drug or pastime. I won’t try to tell you how awesome playing golf is and have my only argument for playing golf be that President Eisenhower was an avid golfer and the president of the United States and he has his face on the dime. George W. Bush played golf, too, and he smoked weed. And he did cocaine. And he got busted for DUI. When his face gets on some currency we will talk. Until then, SHUT IT!
Thank you.
B!
Amazingly, I made my way through several years of high school and college without ever doing the marijuana drug (or any drugs for that matter) again after my indiscretion as a 12-year-old. I also found out something very important about myself when I engaged in the illicit activity of smoking marijuana: It made me a complete fucking idiot. It made me stupid when I was twelve (which is why I didn’t do it again until I was thirty) and it made me EVEN DUMBER when I was thirty because I had 18 more years of experience to pile on to the Dumb Train before driving it off the tracks and into a ravine.
I’m not going to pull any punches here with the weed smoking because I have lived with enough potheads in my lifetime to be able to speak my mind about it. And, let’s face it, anything you smoke that can make a story about a guy with a hotdog in his pocket that he is contemplating throwing at a homeless man the funniest thing you’ve ever heard in your life needs to be called out in a public forum other than an article in High Times.
I take that back, that story is still pretty funny. Just not funny enough to make me or anyone else cry with laughter unless they are high on the ciga-weed. Then, somehow, a man in a tracksuit with a hotdog in his pocket becomes the highest form of comedy ever conceived, leaving things like satire, slapstick and “your mother” jokes choking in the dust. Or the smoke, as it were.
The biggest problem I have had lately with potheads is that they talk about it too fucking much and they like to interject random bullshit factoids to support their use of the drug. You will be engaged in a conversation with a pothead about how the NFL draft went, for example, and they will say something like, “Did you know that Thomas Jefferson smoked a gang of weed all the time? And so did Albert Einstein. Those guys did alright.”
What?
I always want to come back with, “Yeah, and did you know Hitler did amphetamines? Look how much that guy got done in a couple of years. The theory of relativity is for pussies. A real man gets bombed out of his gourd, invades Poland and bitch slaps France before committing suicide in a bunker somewhere after murdering like 8 million people.”
And if you have the audacity to think I’m glorifying Hitler, by the way, you should put down the pipe/apple/bong/gas mask and take a trip into the real world with the rest of us who actually have to deal with reality on a daily basis. I’m just not into the tired rhetoric of potheads. “Dude, George Washington smoked pot and they put his face on the dollar bill.”
Yeah, but, surprisingly, they didn’t put his face on the dollar bill because he smoked pot. I can pretty much guarantee that. Otherwise I’ve had several roommates during my lifetime who belong on currency of some sort. Probably Jamaican, come to think of it. For every one person who did something great with themselves in the 1700’s in spite of smoking pot I can give you at least 30 in the 2000’s who have done nothing but get blazed and play Halo for 16 hours straight.
“Yeah dude, but they play Halo in cooperation mode. That shit’s hard to do when you’re high. Can you order me a pizza? I can’t remember where the phone is.”
You know what else is hard to do? Try putting something in your mouth without lighting it on fire. I can’t tell you how much I struggle with that. Who even thought of that in the first place? If I walked around with a lit candle in my ear would that make me look cooler than I already am? What if I told you it would get you SUPER high and you could see God?
“Dude, it’s herbal. It’s natural. God wants us to smoke it.” Really? Then why do respiratory ailments exist? Is that God’s way of saying, “Gotcha, suckers! Smoke all you want, I’ll still kick your ass.” If you think about it, everything on earth was put here by God (if that’s the route you want to choose in your argument for weed) and we just used our free will to take the periodic table of elements and move some stuff around a little bit here and there and we came up with awesome things like crystal meth, morphine and internet porn (obviously everything isn’t ALL bad about playing with the periodic table). EVERYTHING we use is natural at some point in its existence on earth. Until we start smoking moon rocks or doing lines of Mars at the new Studio 54 I regret to inform all the potheads that the “it’s natural” defense is bullshit.
Do you only eat “organic” food too? That stuff is another huge crock of shit but I will save that for another day, just to save you from having another rant to worry about.
The worst part about the weed smokers is that they all think they are smarter than people who don’t smoke. Let me put this into the proper perspective: People who habitually use a drug that makes their reaction time slower, their conversations more boring and their clothes more smelly actually think they have the ability to pull one over on those who don’t smoke because they think they are smarter than everyone around them.
And they say weed does no harm. I say we already have enough stupid people in the world, what the hell do we need with a drug that makes people dumber than they already are? You are absolutely not fooling anyone when you smoke out and show up in the same room as me. You’re not fooling anyone when you go to your room, close the door and put a towel down on the floor to cover the hole on the bottom. You’re not fooling anyone when you suddenly disappear from a campsite because you “forgot your ice cream” in town (actually, I take that back, you did fool me and I’m still pissed about that). You’re not fooling anyone when you spend days upon days going to your friend’s house to “practice for softball” but come home every night glassy-eyed and still as shitty at softball as you were when you left.
Basically, all I’m saying is that if you want to go smoke weed, go ahead. Smoke away. Get higher than a motha. But don’t try to tell me how awesome it is because you would never use the same tired arguments potheads use for weed in place of ANY other drug or pastime. I won’t try to tell you how awesome playing golf is and have my only argument for playing golf be that President Eisenhower was an avid golfer and the president of the United States and he has his face on the dime. George W. Bush played golf, too, and he smoked weed. And he did cocaine. And he got busted for DUI. When his face gets on some currency we will talk. Until then, SHUT IT!
Thank you.
B!
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Cats On Hallucinogens And Foster's Balls
Monday was a monumental day in my life. It was the day I went and had my dog Foster Charmington’s balls chopped off at the local spay and neuter clinic. Really it was probably more of a monumental day in his life since he is now the one with no balls while mine are still clanging away and getting sat on at inopportune times, but since I had to drive him there and back, it was kind of a big deal for me. The traffic was horrible.
I tried to get an appointment for him at the massage parlor for a full puppy massage with a happy ending but they don’t do that stuff anymore since the police crackdown.
I kid, I kid. They still do that, I just couldn’t afford it.
So anyway, Mr. Charmington lost his balls and I’m not really too sure how I feel about that. On one hand, I’m happy that his balls are gone because then maybe he will stop being so impulsive and shitting everywhere and humping my other dog’s shoulder. On the other hand, the doctor TOOK HIS BALLS.
Where do they put them? In a Ziplock baggie? I want to know.
I take that back, I don’t really want to know. I just kind of want to know, the same way I want to know what they do with amputated feet and people who get kicked off of reality game shows. Do they all go to the same place? Are they ever going to do a “How It’s Made” on that topic?
The thing I really wanted to talk about, though, had less to do with Foster’s balls disappearing into the ether and more to do with what happens to old women that causes them to have cats.
I know there are some cat lovers out there reading this blog, and I don’t know why. Seriously, cats are the worst. The. Worst.
I can say this not only because it is true, but because it is extra special DOUBLE true. Cats are the worst. It’s a scientific fact. Trust me. I wrote the Wikipedia page on it and everything.
Kittens? They’re okay. Cute, furry and playful, they kind of remind me of my own balls. But when they grow up and start spraying piss everywhere and attacking your feet while you sleep and not liking me because I am dating their owner I have to draw the line.
Anyway, I was in a waiting room with 4 older women at the Spay and Neuter clinic, waiting to pick up my dog. Turns out all 4 of these old biddies (I can say that because they most definitely fit the description) were there to pick up their cat. Not that there was one cat being split up between the four of them, there were four cats for four biddies.
There goes another band name, free of charge. Cats For Biddies. Use it wisely.
As I said, I’m in a room with 4 old ladies waiting for their cats. I was subjected to the horror that is old women describing exactly how sassy their cat is, how they like to use the litter box in the kitchen instead of the one in the laundry room, how Miss Muffy (I’m not making that up) stares out the window all day and that is “just the most precious thing” ever, how their cats get along with all of their other cats, how there is a mean orange boy cat that comes around the backyard from time to time and eats her flowers, how her husband doesn’t like the cat (no surprise there) and whatever incredibly boring stories people could ever possibly tell about a cat. I realized I was in my own special version of hell until a lady came out of the back room.
It was the Give Back The Animals lady. Hooray!
So the lady in charge of giving us back our animals that had fewer body parts than we brought them in with has to give everyone a speech about how their animal is going to be behaving for the next 2-5 days. But the BEST part was when she told the ladies, “Just so you know, the cats are all on hallucinogenic drugs right now, so WHATEVER you do, DO NOT try to cuddle them when you get home. They will claw your face off.”
Suddenly the Spay and Neuter clinic has become my favorite place on earth. Cats on hallucinogens? Are you kidding me? Can I come here every day for this? Do you have an internship for that?
The inevitable line of questions from the ladies with diarrhea of the mouth starts to flow (with a special appearance by my own personal thoughts in parenthesis):
Q: Can we cuddle them?
A: No, they will claw your face off. (That’s fucking awesome. Seriously.)
Q: What if she’s been declawed?
A: You can try, but they might bite your face off. (Please can I come to your house with a video camera, just in case? Because I know you’re going to need stitches before the clock strikes midnight.)
Q: Can she play with the other cats I have?
A: No, just put her in the back room alone and let her come off the drugs. (Ha ha, your cat is going to feel like she is at a Phish concert for the next 12 hours.)
Q: But they are friends. What if the other cats are worried?
A: They’re not. Put them in a room by themselves with a litter box and let them recover until tomorrow.
Q: Can we use a shoe box for the litter? (Seriously?)
A: You can use whatever you think will work.
Q: How about a baking pan? (Umm, she just answered that, dumbass)
A: Whatever you think will work.
Q: I think a shoebox will work. (Hooray for thought processes and your ability to separate the useful ones from the not useful ones.)
A: Then use one. Just don’t try to cuddle the cats. (Ha ha, hallucinogens, alliteration, I rule!)
The line of borderline retarded questioning went on for a lot longer than you would think was humanly possible until you realize that most of the old women are so used to talking inanely to their cats that any kind of answer besides a contemptuous swish of the tail and an arrogant blink of the eyelids is such a change of pace they like to keep it going until someone really does claw them in the face or spray piss on their drapes.
Luckily it seemed that the lady in charge was used to that level of questioning and just started bringing animals out so people would stop asking stupid questions and start cooing and making “goo goo” noises at their cats instead of spinning deeper and deeper into the seemingly bottomless pit of stupid questions and comments.
The first woman to get her cat had it in a carrier and held it so the cat’s face was about 2 feet from my face while she filled out her paperwork to leave. Now I don’t have a lot of experience with hallucinogenic drugs and their effects, but it was obvious that the cat in that carrier was FUCKED UP. And I’m not talking Cheech and Chong fucked up. This cat was “Look at all the pretty colors” fucked up.
And then a lady next to me, not knowing just how messed up that cat was, decided to put her finger in front of the cat’s face to give it a little “coochie coo” action. If I were required to put words to the look on the cat’s face, here is what I would have put money on going through that cat’s mind:
WHOA! What the hell is that thing? Get it away from me, it’s freaking HUGE! Why does it move like that? Oh my god the world is closing in all around me. Did the wall just say my name? I think I can hear my hair growing. Where’s Jerry Garcia when you need him?
Just as I was really enjoying getting into that cat’s head, Foster Charmington came running out of the room on his leash, dragging the girl behind him. I had to check to make sure they really took his balls because he seemed way too chipper to have just lost the ability to do the Balls/Johnson dance. Upon further inspection, yes, they took his balls.
“He’s still on some good painkillers right now. They should last about 12 hours.”
So apparently he was too numb and happy to be mad at me, so he ran to me and licked my hand and was generally very glad to be in the hands of someone without a scalpel. I filled out the paperwork and got him in the car, where he immediately fell over in the seat because, yes, the painkillers were some good shit. I drove him home and he spent the next 4 hours alternating between being really alert, running around the house and falling over at random times on the couch as the painkillers did their job on the time release.
The good news is he still likes me. The bad news is I didn’t get any of those ladies’ addresses so I can’t go check to see how bad they all got scratched up.
B!
I tried to get an appointment for him at the massage parlor for a full puppy massage with a happy ending but they don’t do that stuff anymore since the police crackdown.
I kid, I kid. They still do that, I just couldn’t afford it.
So anyway, Mr. Charmington lost his balls and I’m not really too sure how I feel about that. On one hand, I’m happy that his balls are gone because then maybe he will stop being so impulsive and shitting everywhere and humping my other dog’s shoulder. On the other hand, the doctor TOOK HIS BALLS.
Where do they put them? In a Ziplock baggie? I want to know.
I take that back, I don’t really want to know. I just kind of want to know, the same way I want to know what they do with amputated feet and people who get kicked off of reality game shows. Do they all go to the same place? Are they ever going to do a “How It’s Made” on that topic?
The thing I really wanted to talk about, though, had less to do with Foster’s balls disappearing into the ether and more to do with what happens to old women that causes them to have cats.
I know there are some cat lovers out there reading this blog, and I don’t know why. Seriously, cats are the worst. The. Worst.
I can say this not only because it is true, but because it is extra special DOUBLE true. Cats are the worst. It’s a scientific fact. Trust me. I wrote the Wikipedia page on it and everything.
Kittens? They’re okay. Cute, furry and playful, they kind of remind me of my own balls. But when they grow up and start spraying piss everywhere and attacking your feet while you sleep and not liking me because I am dating their owner I have to draw the line.
Anyway, I was in a waiting room with 4 older women at the Spay and Neuter clinic, waiting to pick up my dog. Turns out all 4 of these old biddies (I can say that because they most definitely fit the description) were there to pick up their cat. Not that there was one cat being split up between the four of them, there were four cats for four biddies.
There goes another band name, free of charge. Cats For Biddies. Use it wisely.
As I said, I’m in a room with 4 old ladies waiting for their cats. I was subjected to the horror that is old women describing exactly how sassy their cat is, how they like to use the litter box in the kitchen instead of the one in the laundry room, how Miss Muffy (I’m not making that up) stares out the window all day and that is “just the most precious thing” ever, how their cats get along with all of their other cats, how there is a mean orange boy cat that comes around the backyard from time to time and eats her flowers, how her husband doesn’t like the cat (no surprise there) and whatever incredibly boring stories people could ever possibly tell about a cat. I realized I was in my own special version of hell until a lady came out of the back room.
It was the Give Back The Animals lady. Hooray!
So the lady in charge of giving us back our animals that had fewer body parts than we brought them in with has to give everyone a speech about how their animal is going to be behaving for the next 2-5 days. But the BEST part was when she told the ladies, “Just so you know, the cats are all on hallucinogenic drugs right now, so WHATEVER you do, DO NOT try to cuddle them when you get home. They will claw your face off.”
Suddenly the Spay and Neuter clinic has become my favorite place on earth. Cats on hallucinogens? Are you kidding me? Can I come here every day for this? Do you have an internship for that?
The inevitable line of questions from the ladies with diarrhea of the mouth starts to flow (with a special appearance by my own personal thoughts in parenthesis):
Q: Can we cuddle them?
A: No, they will claw your face off. (That’s fucking awesome. Seriously.)
Q: What if she’s been declawed?
A: You can try, but they might bite your face off. (Please can I come to your house with a video camera, just in case? Because I know you’re going to need stitches before the clock strikes midnight.)
Q: Can she play with the other cats I have?
A: No, just put her in the back room alone and let her come off the drugs. (Ha ha, your cat is going to feel like she is at a Phish concert for the next 12 hours.)
Q: But they are friends. What if the other cats are worried?
A: They’re not. Put them in a room by themselves with a litter box and let them recover until tomorrow.
Q: Can we use a shoe box for the litter? (Seriously?)
A: You can use whatever you think will work.
Q: How about a baking pan? (Umm, she just answered that, dumbass)
A: Whatever you think will work.
Q: I think a shoebox will work. (Hooray for thought processes and your ability to separate the useful ones from the not useful ones.)
A: Then use one. Just don’t try to cuddle the cats. (Ha ha, hallucinogens, alliteration, I rule!)
The line of borderline retarded questioning went on for a lot longer than you would think was humanly possible until you realize that most of the old women are so used to talking inanely to their cats that any kind of answer besides a contemptuous swish of the tail and an arrogant blink of the eyelids is such a change of pace they like to keep it going until someone really does claw them in the face or spray piss on their drapes.
Luckily it seemed that the lady in charge was used to that level of questioning and just started bringing animals out so people would stop asking stupid questions and start cooing and making “goo goo” noises at their cats instead of spinning deeper and deeper into the seemingly bottomless pit of stupid questions and comments.
The first woman to get her cat had it in a carrier and held it so the cat’s face was about 2 feet from my face while she filled out her paperwork to leave. Now I don’t have a lot of experience with hallucinogenic drugs and their effects, but it was obvious that the cat in that carrier was FUCKED UP. And I’m not talking Cheech and Chong fucked up. This cat was “Look at all the pretty colors” fucked up.
And then a lady next to me, not knowing just how messed up that cat was, decided to put her finger in front of the cat’s face to give it a little “coochie coo” action. If I were required to put words to the look on the cat’s face, here is what I would have put money on going through that cat’s mind:
WHOA! What the hell is that thing? Get it away from me, it’s freaking HUGE! Why does it move like that? Oh my god the world is closing in all around me. Did the wall just say my name? I think I can hear my hair growing. Where’s Jerry Garcia when you need him?
Just as I was really enjoying getting into that cat’s head, Foster Charmington came running out of the room on his leash, dragging the girl behind him. I had to check to make sure they really took his balls because he seemed way too chipper to have just lost the ability to do the Balls/Johnson dance. Upon further inspection, yes, they took his balls.
“He’s still on some good painkillers right now. They should last about 12 hours.”
So apparently he was too numb and happy to be mad at me, so he ran to me and licked my hand and was generally very glad to be in the hands of someone without a scalpel. I filled out the paperwork and got him in the car, where he immediately fell over in the seat because, yes, the painkillers were some good shit. I drove him home and he spent the next 4 hours alternating between being really alert, running around the house and falling over at random times on the couch as the painkillers did their job on the time release.
The good news is he still likes me. The bad news is I didn’t get any of those ladies’ addresses so I can’t go check to see how bad they all got scratched up.
B!
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